‘It was the only cookbook she ever used.’
‘She?’
‘My wife, Joan,’ he replies and takes a breath. ‘Joan died a few years ago. I miss her terribly.’
His words make me look up.
‘I’ve been trying to cook the meals Joan made. Her shepherd’s pie was delicious, and we raised our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren on her chicken casserole. Everything Joan cooked was from Barbara Plum’s cookbook.’ He chuckles. ‘It used to be dog-eared, covered in pencil notes and gravy stains. After she passed away, when I moved house, it went missing.’
He blinks and takes out a white handkerchief with a cluster of pink embroidered flowers on one corner and the stitched initials J.C.E. ‘This was her favourite handkerchief,’ he explains. ‘I always carry it with me.’ He dabs his watery eyes. ‘If I can get hold of Barbara’s book, I can make her chicken casserole and…’ He pauses and stares down at the handkerchief. ‘For a few moments, I can believe that it was Joan who made it and she’s just popped out to the shops.’
My throat tightens. I remind myself that this is what love does to perfectly sane people. It makes them do strange things, such as chasing chicken casserole recipes and pretending it will bring back their loved ones.
He sniffs. ‘My family are scattered over the world nowadays. If I wanted to see them, I would have to fly. There’s no one near me any more, so I think about Joan and Barbara’s cookbook a lot.’
I return to the laptop, still carrying Henry’s book. The old man follows. Once at the counter, I slide the book on the shelf underneath the till. I tap in ‘Barbara Plum’s cookery book’ into the database.
‘I am afraid it has been out of print for years.’
The old man’s smile wobbles. ‘Well, I tried. It’s just an old cookbook.’ He blinks and holds my gaze.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can I give you my details in case you come across Barbara’s book?’
I nod, and he gives me his name, phone number and address.
As he hobbles towards the door, Miranda appears at the till counter. ‘Was that Mr Ellis?’
‘Yes, why?’
She stares wistfully at the elderly man leaving the shop. ‘Was he in here asking for Barbara Plum’s cookery book?’
‘Has he asked you about it too?’
She nods. ‘He usually comes in on a Wednesday when you have your day off. That book is out of print, but I don’t think he understands that we’re unlikely to obtain a copy. He will give you his details and be here next week. Poor old Mr Ellis.’
His words ‘it’s just an old cookbook’ still echo in my mind as I walk home that evening. Crossing the road, I consider trying to find it for him. I know of second-hand book shops that are great at acquiring out-of-print books. But would that cookbook only worsen his suffering?
I tell myself that, just like love, books come to an end, too.
12
Exhaustion washes over me. As I walk home from the station, my legs feel like lead. It has been quite a day.
Aunt Polly drove us both to the hospital in Nigella, who, I might add, was like the world’s most angelic car. There was no stalling, no seatbelt strangulation, and we even listened to a classical music CD to calm Aunt Polly down.
Watching her go through her first cycle of chemo was stressful, emotional, and thankfully event-free. The nurses were excellent, and we felt special and supported.
After the chemo, I drove us back, and Nigella reverted to her old mischievous ways. She stalled as I was trying to negotiate a busy roundabout, nearly cut off my blood supply with the seatbelt, and spat out Aunt Polly’s Classic FM CD.
‘Ignore her,’ Aunt Polly said, tapping the dashboard. ‘She’s worked up about my chemo.’
I looked away and muttered to myself about Nigella needing to be on the scrapheap.
On the way home, I asked Aunt Polly about hair loss. She gave me one of her optimistic smiles and said she would embrace a new, shorter look, including wigs and hair scarves. I looked out of the window and hoped she would maintain her optimistic outlook about her hair.
Aunt Polly didn’t fancy tea and biscuits, so she sat on the sofa while we watched an interview with a woman who had swum the Channel. I tried to concentrate, but Henry’s face kept intruding on my thoughts. My mind replayed our encounter in the bookshop, and I felt a little twang of guilt for my abruptness and turning my back on him. He triggered me with his talk about Mum and my curse. Back when we swam together, we were good friends. I remember how he made the Saturday morning training sessions bearable. The book he wanted me to put aside for him comes to mind. I will make sure Miranda doesn’t put it back on the shelf.
